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Pearl had been much younger the last time she’d visited her mother, just shy of ten years old. As her mother had lost the privilege of private visitations shortly after the incident at Hazakura Temple, Detective Gumshoe and Mr. Edgeworth supervised the visit.
The good detective had been the one who wrapped Pearl in his arms and carried her into the hall after Pearl stood on the plastic chair and began beating her fists against the glass, yelling at her mother that she hated her. Pearl had been much smaller, too, so small that when the detective knelt to the floor and held her close, the top of her head just barely reached his shoulder. Her tears left a wet spot on the worn fabric of his dress shirt. Gumshoe had shared his vending machine dorayaki with her, and she ate the sweet treat gratefully, even as heaving sobs ripped through her little body. Mr. Edgeworth was not a hugging man, but he dabbed the tears and snot from Pearl’s face with a fine handkerchief. He sat beside her as she drank cool water from a plastic cup on an uncomfortable bench, and he let her lean against him until she was ready to face Mystic Maya again.
Now, Pearl was sixteen years old; it was Mother’s Day, and Pearl followed a guard through the halls of the detention center, a single carnation in her hand.
When they reached the interview room, she handed the flower to the guard and stepped into the room. She sat in the folding chair and placed her hands in her lap. The guard shut the door behind her, and in a moment she heard a click from the other side of the glass, something mumbled, and another click, probably the door closing. Mr. Edgeworth had told her over and over that the guard would be just outside the room, so if Pearl needed anything, all she needed to do was use the call button. Pearl took a deep breath and lifted her face to look through the glass barrier.
Morgan Fey sat on the other side. Her mother's face had always been thin, but now her cheeks had hollowed, her skull protruding and sharp. Her dark eyes had lost their spark of life, sunken into the sockets, and she breathed through thin, dry lips. Her roots had grayed entirely, fading into midnight black at the shoulders; all her hair hung limp and neglected in a curtain down her back. Pearl realized her mother must have been wearing makeup throughout her entire childhood; it must've been so, because her mother’s face now appeared raw and discolored. If she didn’t know any better, she would’ve mistaken this woman, ostensibly her mother, for a complete stranger; where was the village leader who had halfway-raised her?
The carnation sat on the counter on Morgan’s side of the glass under stark fluorescent lights. Pearl crossed her legs at the ankle and took a breath.
“Hello, Mother,” said Pearl.
The woman on the other side of the glass blinked, as if waking from some distant dream, and she lifted her sunken face. When she saw Pearl, she inhaled, blinked again, and her eyes lit up with a faint hint of life. “Pearl,” the woman breathed. “My treasure.”
Pearl held her weak gaze, though it felt like she was being ripped into two by a beast trying to escape her rib cage. She refused to crumble here. Not again.
“You’re here,” her mother said, that dreamy cadence trailing into the unvoiced question: why?
Pearl fixed her eyes on the carnation and the shadow it cast onto the counter. “I asked for permission to bring you a gift…” Her mother picked up the flower with two bony fingers and a thumb. “...because it’s Mother’s Day,” Pearl finished. Her head spun at the sight of blue veins visible underneath washi-thin skin, at the flexing and stretching of the tendons and bones in her mother’s hand.
When she finally returned her gaze to her mother’s face, Morgan was cradling the blossom to her cheek with a wistful half-smile on her lips, and she said, “Thank you, my Pearl. How beautiful.” She closed her eyes and held the flower just under her nose. She remained in that delicate position, breathing almost imperceptibly, for a long minute. Pearl let her eyes wander over the loose orange jumpsuit hanging off of her mother’s shoulders. She’d always been tall and thin, a trait that Pearl had inherited, but she no longer carried the plump fullness of mountain life in her face and torso. Everything soft in Morgan Fey had withered.
“Your hair is so long, so beautiful,” her mother cooed, like she always had. “And your braids. Did you do that yourself?”
Pearl nodded. “Iris taught me,” she said. “She’s a good teacher.” Iris had gentle hands, so Pearl always had flyaways and loose baby hairs when her sister braided her hair. She never tugged or pulled at Pearl’s sensitive hairline to keep it controlled. (And Mystic Maya, of course, was mostly just content that Pearl was able to brush and wash her hair by herself nowadays.)
“How is she? My Iris,” her mother asked, “is she well?”
“Yeah,” Pearl said, a bad habit from Mr. Nick. She corrected herself before her mother could say anything about it: “Y-Yes, ma’am.”
Pearl’s mother traced the petals of the carnation with her fingertip, lost in a trance. “I’m glad to hear that. So very, very glad…” She looked at Pearl with something like hope flickering in the sunken caves of her dark eyes. “Have you received my letters?”
Pearl sucked her bottom lip into her mouth and bit it, just hard enough to shock her into the present. “Yes,” she said. “All of them.” Every single letter, save those that must have been lost in the mail, perhaps. All of them.
“I’m glad,” her mother said. “I’m glad, I’m glad.” And she looked glad, or something like it, that half-smile still playing over her lips, a half-hope in her vacant eyes.
The rest of the visit was nearly silent, save Pearl’s mother muttering, mostly to herself, things like “my Pearl,” “I’m glad you’re here,” “You’re so lovely.” And Pearl’s eyes darted from her mother’s face, to her mother’s hands, to the blood-red carnation, to the small window where she could see a sliver of the blue sky. Her mother mostly looked at her, drinking in the sight of sixteen-year-old Pearl, her half-up braids, the rest of her waist-length hair let down, the way she’d stretched and grown over the long, long years. And Pearl couldn’t rid herself of the image of her mother’s thin skin, hidden from the warmth of the sun.
Too soon, but not soon enough, a crackle of the speaker: “Time’s up, ladies.”
Morgan Fey’s eyes flashed in a familiar expression of rage, but she deflated before Pearl could brace herself for impact. Her mother exhaled through her nose, colorless lips curving in a frown. “Always running out of time,” she mused.
Pearl stood, muttered something, she didn’t even know what, and her mother twitched, leaned closer to the glass. She reached for Pearl with her wilted hands.
“Thank you for visiting, Pearl.”
Pearl nodded. “You’re welcome.” She was staring through the door, but out of the corner of her eye, she could see Morgan’s hand reaching for her.
“I love you,” her mother said. “You know I love you, correct?”
“Yes, Mother,” Pearl answered. How strange that two such words had rusted after all these years, leaving the taste of sharp metal in her mouth. Or, perhaps more accurately, she’d bitten her lip hard enough to draw blood.
“Pearl, won’t you look at me?” her mother asked. “Please?”
Pearl turned her face toward the glass, though her heart was ready to bolt out of the room, the detention center, Los Angeles, California all together. Her mother’s hand looked far too old to be connected to her, papery skin pressed against the glass so the imprint of her palm and its lines would be left after Pearl departed. The very first time Pearl had visited her mother in prison, when she was only eight years old, they’d done this same thing; she pressed her hand to the cool surface and wished with her whole heart that she could reach through, beyond, and once again be held in the tight squeeze of her mother’s hand. Beyond the hand, beyond the orange jumpsuit, Pearl’s mother looked at her with sunken, teary eyes; she looked at Pearl with something like love.
Morgan Fey hadn’t even cried when the Los Angeles County Superior Court terminated her guardianship of one Pearl Fey.
The guard opened the door and spoke to her. “Miss, it’s time to say goodbye. Your time is up.”
Pearl mumbled an apology to him, frozen in place by her mother’s pleading eyes. “Goodbye, Mother,” she whispered. “Happy Mother’s Day.”
“So long, my sweet Pearl,” her mother said, hand still pressed insistently against the glass.
Pearl rushed the door, pushed past the guard, and stumbled into the hallway. Her eyes were locked on the patterned linoleum floor and the reflection of lights in its waxed luster, but she kept moving. Her legs were stiff and mechanical, but she kept moving. She didn’t even stop after barreling into someone head-on.
A hand on her shoulder, though, brought her to a halt. “Miss Fey?” Mr. Edgeworth said. “Are you–”
“Bathroom,” Pearl wheezed. “I n-need—bathroom.”
“Right then.” He squeezed her shoulder. “Come along.”
Mr. Edgeworth led her down the hall to the women’s restroom, and she bolted inside without thanking him. The door slammed behind her with a bang. Her gasps echoed. Pearl leaned over the sink, holding herself up with one hand gripping the porcelain, the other held over her mouth. Several minutes passed while she stood at the sink, eyes closed, spilling silent tears against her will, shoulders trembling. Then, Pearl splashed her face with cool tap water and gently dabbed the moisture away with a rough paper towel, avoiding the mirror as much as possible. She couldn’t bear to look in the mirror, not knowing whose face would be looking back at her; besides, she’d seen enough of Morgan Fey’s face to last another few years.
When Pearl emerged, Mr. Edgeworth was still in the hall, waiting. His handkerchief was in hand the moment he saw her. Pearl didn’t need it this time, but she was greedy, greedy, greedy, and stole a hug from the awkward man. He still was not a hugging man, but he patted her upper back twice. It’s the thought that counts, really, Pearl thought.
Outside the detention center, her ride was waiting at the curb; Sister Iris, or her sister, Iris, was standing beside the passenger door, hands clasped in front of her until she saw Pearl. Then, her face broke into a gentle smile, and her hands opened like a flower in bloom, reaching for Pearl. And Pearl ran to Iris, cheeks landing in her sister’s hands, and she threw her arms around her. And she did not cry, because Iris was holding her in her gentle arms and whispering something soothing.
“Are you okay?” Iris asked, once Pearl’s breathing had slowed, and Pearl…
She nodded. “I’m okay. Just a little sad.” She stepped out of Iris’s embrace and ran her tongue along the inside of her bottom lip; she had drawn blood after all, just as she’d thought.
Iris cupped Pearl’s cheek. “I’m a little sad, too, but so happy that we get to spend the day together.”
“Did Mystic Maya send you the address?” Pearl asked. Today had been her cousin’s idea: the surviving Feys were celebrating their first ‘Burger Day’ together; they would’ve been eating lunch together already if Pearl hadn’t told Mystic Maya she needed to go to the detention center.
No, not needed. Wanted.
Iris opened her phone; her little cellphone was something chunky, something that folded in half when it wasn’t being used, something with buttons. “She sent a little image with the address,” she said. “What is that?” She turned her phone so Pearl could see the screen. A little box with a question mark inside it sat in the middle of Mystic Maya’s text.
Pearl giggled. “It’s probably a burger emoji. I’ll show you later.”
Iris smiled and nodded, then she looked to Mr. Edgeworth and faltered for a second. “Thank you for bringing her to me,” she said, and Pearl turned just in time to see the man fidget in place and nod once, curt as ever.
They all said goodbye, Mr. Edgeworth waved awkwardly and hurried back into the building, and Pearl sat in the passenger seat of Iris’s midnight-blue sedan. Before Iris started the engine, however, she looked at Pearl, a quirk in her eyebrow.
“How is Mother?” she asked.
Pearl looked back to the concrete building, and the engine turned over with a rumble. The sky was perfect blue, almost like the sky in Kurain Village, but if she looked too close, there was a faint brown film just above the horizon. The air here in the city was more dense than in the mountains, and the rain was never greeted with the scent of ribbonwood, only gasoline and concrete.
“Sad,” Pearl said, and her voice fractured. “She just looks sad.”
Iris didn’t say anything further about their mother, instead making sure Pearl had buckled her seatbelt before she pulled away from the curb. The detention center slowly shrank in the side mirror. Pearl watched it fade out of sight until Iris turned at an intersection, and she could no longer see where their mother lived. Then she directed her eyes through the windshield, away from a woman who held carnations more delicately than she’d ever held her daughters. Somewhere in the city, at a restaurant with a website older than Pearl and hundreds of five-star reviews, Mystic Maya would meet Pearl and Iris, and they’d eat the best cheeseburgers of their lives, probably. And Pearl would live.